GOLDEN SLuMBERS
by TheOptimisticPessimist
Summary: The clock ticked the hour past; how much longer was there to go? Wybourne x Coraline fluff. Rated with thoughts of you in mind. Questionable themes have arrived folks. New CH7 UP! 081809
1. Dream 1

DISCLAIMER: If I owned Coraline, Wybie would have been in the books. God, that boy is CUTE!!!

My first Coraline fic but not my first fanfiction. I saw the movie and fell IN LOVE. I remember seeing the book throughout my childhood but never reading it. What a fool I was. Altho, Wybie wasn't in it, so my experience would be cut a wee bit short.

I have heard, though, that the book itself is superb even without Wybourn's presence!

Read on!

GOLDEN SLuMBERS

-

Dream one

-

The rain let up in the afternoon.

Coraline smiled.

Sun shined gaily into the classroom; the light fell in broken shafts like uncooked pasta. This created a glare on the television screen which woefully deprived half of the classroom the visuals necessary to study the birthing habits of the African giraffe.

Her pencil fell quietly from her limp hand, her glazed eyes looking (But never seeing) the mushy green vegetation beyond the window.

The clock ticked the hour past; how much longer was there to go?

Little nightmares crept along her hazy gaze. They yanked her eyelids back and buttoned her eyes. Their little sharp fingers stitched a zipper to her mouth and pierced her nose. They yanked angrily at her cerulean hair and replaced it with bulky knots of yarn. The little demons knocked her back and suspended her in a liquid vacuum – and she was flaccid and … content.

The ringing of a bell woke her. The class was dispersing and she was smearing drool from her thin lips. She suddenly grew itchy at the thought of zippers.

In her drowsy state, her fluid movements proved whimsical and stuffy. It was as though the hallway were performing a waltz with her; the children acting as rat soldiers and she, the queen of the sugar plum fairies.

Down the hall, around the corner, beside someone's vomit, above a toppled trashcan; she was greeted with the back lot. Gym fields, dirt and the faculty parking lot all swathed in sunshine and glorious heat (Even Cat wouldn't resist.)

She felt the heavy curtains of her eyelids sink slowly and her lead lolled back – and the little nightmares hissed happily behind her brain, lying in wait.

Chained to a sign pole was Wybourn's motorbike; the argument of getting an actual motorcycle was still in play with Grandma Lovat, so the term 'motorbike' was applied to brush up standard. The sign the pole bared read 'Band Director' in bold black on yellow – alas, there was no band to speak of, which cured the schools need for a director. And Wybourn cured the need of someone to park there.

Coraline lazily sauntered to the 'vehicle' and set her bag in the square basket that Wybie had been such a doll to weld to his bike. As she reminisced about the modifications he had made for her, she slowly fell back, sleep blanketing her consciousness.

The sun threw down heated rolls of sunshine across the afternoon. The thick ocean of tepidity lulled her to a nap – in the back of her mind, Coraline could feel the hot sting of a car door along her spine. Her brain sluggishly slid from reality and fell into a lackadaisical flop.

And an ice age struck without abandon. And he did it with a smile and a merry jingle of keys.

"Sleep much, Jonesy?" She lifted her eyes and shifted her cool gaze along his figure. He was swift in unlatching the chain and throwing his leg over the homebuilt contraption.

"Are you going to sleep on Mr. Blaylocks' car or are you coming home?" He cheekily stated.

Ever persistent, sleep jilted her mind like a creamy fog about her brain. She shifted onto the backseat and wrapped her arms around his middle.

With every bump on the road, her chin gently bounced on Wybourn's shoulder.

Wybourn smiled happily all the way home.

- LA FIN -

A/N: Talk about cheese, huh? I think there will be another one, but it depends. How cheesy are yall gonna let me get? I'm worst than a pot of fondue, people. The next chapter – whoo, it's pretty bad. But those are the musings of midschool and sleep deprivation.

Lemme know what yall think and MAYBE I'll put up another chapter.

~Molly


	2. Dream 2

DISCLAIMER: If I owned Coraline, I would strap Wybourne to an inversion table and…let him hang there.

Yep.

-

GOLDEN SLuMBERS

-

Dream 2

-

His name was Charlie; Charlie Chappie Bunbun. It was certain that Coraline dearly loved her stuffed rabbit. As a toddling three years old, she carted the doll everywhere. Until one day, at day care, she left him in the sand box.

She never again saw his smiling face.

Now, as an eleven year old, she will never sleep with a doll again.

* * *

Wybourne didn't have many memories of his parents; he couldn't remember their birthdays, their favorite colors and he had a hell of a time remembering their faces.

When he had a bad dream he wouldn't rely on his grandmother either (as the woman wasn't the MOST compassionate sort, nor could she be woken before 6.).

When he wasn't doing well in the wee hours, Wybie found comfort his grandpa's old pipe wrench.

…

Yes, a pipe wrench.

* * *

It was soft and blue. It was a single sheet of fabric – but it was dripping with love. Coraline adored her blue blanket. She couldn't sleep without it (between the ages of nil and…oh, about five, maybe?)

When she went stomping through the mud or hunting for pixies, that blanket was with her.

And one day, she just… didn't need it anymore. She folded it up and placed in on a high shelf in her closet.

She lost it in the move.

* * *

Cat was a lucky fellow.

Yes, he could fend for himself; but why do so when the Coraline and Wybie were seemingly overjoyed to feed him?

And yes; he was, on a technicality, a 'fair' cat; but who could resist the temptation of a warm bed on a cold, rainy night?

Coraline's thickly comfortable quilts and puffy pillows gave off an air of her deliciously fruity shampoo. Cat had a burying fetish when it came to her poufy, black, floral comforter.

Wybourne's heavy and worn-in futon seemingly possessed the _best _knots and bumps to roll on. Not to mention, Wybourne didn't seem to have a problem if he slept of his face (Unlike _some _people.)

Cat smirked to himself and licked his chops once more.

He was the only thing that the both of them had slept with.

* * *

Except each other, that is.

* * *

A/N: MUAHAHAHAHAA!!

How's that for a bleeding last line?!?

And yes, I suppose that it's a bit inappropriate. BUT. I think I shall continue up on that note. HAHA.

And let me ramble a little. I wanted to portray that certain things Coraline loved, she ended up loosing; and the things Wybie wanted to love, he never had.

How did I do?

Tell me what you think!

~Molly


	3. Dream 3

DISCLAIMER: If I owned Coraline, every movie ticket would come with Wybies' bitching bike and Coralines' blue boots. Damn, they're sexy. Can you imagine them together?

Those boots…ach, my heart aches

NOTE~! Who eslse could not log in for the past two days??? I was so angry! I had this chapter up and ready to go at 2 in the morning and I couldn't get into my account! Grah!!!

Now where was I?

-

GOLDREN SLuMBERS

-

Dream 3

- Places Part 1 -

-

Sharyhs Lovat woke early to eat; as she was a creature of habit. She instilled this habit in her grandson, Wybourne.

He was a good child; he reminded her of her son when he was a young boy. Although Nage wasn't as gangly or had Wybourne's infectious laughter, she remembered her son fondly and wished Wybourne had known his father.

Wybourne's mother was around for the first few years; she was a fallow-faced woman with long lashes and thick brown hair. She wasn't very tall nor had she much self-esteem. Post partum depression wracked her mentally until Wybourne was 3. She left no note when she disappeared.

As Wybourne grew, she found his brain functioned on an extremely different frequency than most children. The first detection of this was when 6 year old Wybourne was found sitting on the kitchen floor, his fingers prying apart the plastic on the new waffle iron.

In his defense he stated 'I jus wanted to know how it worked, Gramma.'

Not long after the event, Sharyhs soon discovered that if she did not directly tell Wybourne he couldn't dismantle the appliances, they would be strewn across the garage floor.

9 Year old Wybourne turned to her with a knowing look and screwdriver in hand. 'I'm gonna put em back together, Gramma.'

And one day, she thought she had had enough when she came home to find her grandson nursing a laceration to his left arm. He had removed the hood from her deceased husband's 1952 Ford and 'wasn't paying attention' as he removed the fan.

12 year old Wybourne matter-of-factly stated as he gingerly held his bleeding arm over the bathtub, 'If I don't fix that thing, it will rust in the front yard and never be driven again. It's an eyesore Gramma – Besides, it's not like your ever gonna drive it, right?'

Sharhys decided she would put up with her grandson's tinkering.

She about fell over when a week after his birthday, he had attached a motor to the new bike she had bought for him.

She left the room and had a conversation with Jesus when he showed her the new engine he had built for the truck.

But all of these things she had learned to deal with. Wybourne was a good boy and she had raised him well.

The hour was half past as she stepped from the landing into the kitchen.

She had planned to eat an English muffin and enjoy a cup of tea with the paper before cooking some hash browns and grits for her boy.

That was, until she had entered the kitchen.

Because, upon entering the kitchen, she decided that (figuring in all the years of patience and decisive understanding) she would kill her grandchild.

Upon the kitchen table, in all his oily, dirty glory, was her precious Wybourne. The murky brown stains that had set in her thin Peruvian lace tablecloth made her fingers twitch.

She was going to have a 'Come to Jesus' meeting with him in a few minutes.

_After_ her cup of tea, and removing the wheels from his bike.

* * *

She remembered the single night her mother wouldn't wake up.

Her father's snoring ran her from the room.

The house shook with every rumble. The glass in the frames on the wall tinkled ever so slightly. The cymbal-escent booming of the thunder ached within her chest, where it bloomed and bred fear.

She shivered and wrapped the thin blue material of her blanket around her shoulders. Coraline tip toed through the lonesome halls faster than she had ever done so previously. The large house made sounds; unexplained bumps in the night, creaks from the ceiling and one time, she _swore_ she heard the refrigerator door slam shut.

Fingers dragged across the walls, tears bursting at the dams of her lids, a cry stifled at her throat; the walls glowed bright white with every scream from the angered night.

As she entered her room, the ferocious wind knocked a gnarly tree branch into her window; she looked away.

She prayed for darkness – still, calming darkness – a sanctuary her room oft didn't provide.

With a sudden burst of clarity, Coraline swept her comforter and pillows from the mattress and threw them quickly to the floor. She lifted her bed skirt and thrust them underneath.

Coraline crawled under and spent the night.

Under the bed.

* * *

A/N: Hello my lovely reviewers and non-reviewers-but-story alert-ers.

Having compiled a list, there will be several more chapters just like this. So you know. (It that a good thing? is what I'm saying here. I am quite partial to this becauseI have a big list. Haha.)

A note on Wybourne's family.

In the film he stated 'An ordinary name leads people to have ordinary expectations about a person.' Going off of this, I think everyone would have an odd name. His father's name is pronounced 'Naw-Jee'. There is an African exchange student in my biology class with this name.

His grandmother's is another interpretation of Shareese.

And I wish to basically interpret that, though at different times, Wybourne's parents pretty much skipped out on him. Poor kid.

Yes, I know I s_hould _make longer chapters. But I do it to make you cry.

…

Love you!

~Molly


	4. Dream 4

DISCLAIMER: If I owned Coraline, we wouldn't be having this conversation, now would we? ( I very much enjoy the conversations we have, you know.)

So, who's revved up on Coraline fanfiction and art? I AM! Who's sick and it's the only reason they have time to update right now? I AM! Who's gonna go vomit before they continue writing?

I am. (Cries.) I'll be ok, folks.

-

GOLDEN SLuMBERS

-

Dream 4

-

Coraline picked at her Chinese food. Being that it was past midnight and her parents _still _weren't home, she had deduced that they were having a much better time than her.

She had fallen asleep at 8 (of all times!) only to be woken by a pestering wuss puss that was too lazy to catch a rat for the evening.

He swished his tail defiantly as she poured some of her leftover rice into a dish for him.

"You're such a bothersome thing! Waking me up at this hour to feed you? Couldn't you have at least bothered Why-was-he-born?"

Cats' blue eyes blinked slowly. Coraline took this as a resounding, proud 'No'.

She sat down as the thin cat dove at the rice. She inspected her Kung Pao with distaste and flopped back dramatically upon her chair with a heavy sigh.

"This…is BEYOND boring…"

Several minutes ticked past. Cat finished his dish and hopped on Coralines' lap. He purred as she mindlessly stroked his boney spine.

In the hallway, the Grandfather clock boomed one manly 'daum'. Coraline ALMOST didn't notice – after all, she _could_ be _sleeping_ right now…

"…Is it _really _one A.M? What kind of parents am I being raised by? I can't even go to bed at a decent hour anymore!" She dawdled on, looking at the ceiling in a sleepless, gaut not-look.

'_You're beginning to sound like his grandmother.' _Cat swished his tail, again, eyes blinking blue.

"Shut up." She pushed him to the floor. He yawped and sauntered away cheekily.

With a sudden burst of adrenaline and brain power, Coraline sat upright and began to speak too loudly.

"It's Saturday night!" She stated intelligently whilst ignoring Cats amused gaze.

"People DO stuff on Saturday nights, right? So…If I'm not doing something then I'm not a person, right?" She fell off the chair and crawled to where Cat had sat himself dejectedly.

He looked skeptical.

"If I'm not a person, then I don't have friends. _Well_, actual people friends that is. I have _non-person_ friends who don't do stuff on Saturday nights…LIKE ME!"

She picked up Cat and joyously pointed at the back door. "To Wybournes' house!"

Cat rolled his eyes. Coraline had always been easily marveled at the notion of…non-boredom.

XoxoX

She let herself into the garage. After all, if the light was on this late, he had to be home. And besides, it wasn't like his grandmother ever once _thought_ about stepping foot in Wybournes' 'man cave'. (Unless she wanted a nail through the foot or something…)

Wybourne blinkless gaze was concentrated at an old television that was hooked up to a PlayStation. His bare feet tapped the concrete floor to the beat of the background music. He nonchalantly grunted when an opponent caused him to…loose somehow; Coraline wasn't very interested in the actual works of what he was doing.

She slipped off her boots and climbed over the back of the love seat to sit with him.

"Heya Wybie."

The controller dropped loudly to the floor and his head violently swung in her direction. His eyes were wide and hair a little nappier than usual.

"Oh, didn't hear me come in, huh?" Inadvertently scaring the boy out of his wits wasn't one of her marked intentions but she supposed it could serve as a demerit for every other time he scared her out of her pants.

"…" Wybourne even opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He looked away. Then he stood up. And _then _hewalked away.

Coraline followed with her eyes in disbelief. She had never seen him act so…robotic.

He opened the door to the kitchen and walked inside, leaving Coraline alone on the couch. And the character on the game to be repeatedly killed by a fire breathing radish.

XoxoX

When he walked back into the garage, Coraline chuckled sleepily. He had gone all the way upstairs just to put a shirt on.

"You're quite…ridiculous, Wybourne."

He yawned in a noncommittal way and returned to his seat beside her.

She watched him play for a few more minutes until sleep overtook her.

Wybie looked over (now that he was ready to say something) and frowned.

He grumbled. His gramma would kill him without asking any questions. He cracked his neck and looked at Cat. The animal was lying at his feet. Cats' blue eyes seemed to chuckle endlessly.

"Shut up." He pulled a crocheted blanket off the back of the couch and threw it on the snoozing blunette.

He removed his shirt once more and played until, he too, fell asleep.

* * *

One time, he rolled on top of her and kissed her until she was moaning. He could still feel the green grass beneath her…

Another time, they were in an elevator. One of them had pulled the emergency brake in between floors.

He shivered when he thought of the time when –

Wybourne Lovat jerked himself upright and clamped his fingers to his scalp in the attempt of ripping it off (Because this would provide greater access to his brain where these horrible visions were occurring.)

_WELL, _they weren't… _horrible, _per say_._ More like… _pleasurable_… – NO! They were _horrible!_

He shouldn't be thinking of his best friend that way!

But…

He had done so since he was 13.

And, to his misfortune, it was a natural reaction.

OH, he _hated _it. He wished it would never happen again. That it would go away and never soil in sheets in the wee hours. It was the single greatest downfall of the growing youth.

_WELL… _probably the second greatest.

The SINGLE greatest downfall of the growing youth was getting rid of the problem if it hadn't relived itself.

In the back of his mind, he replayed his very first…er…nocturnal emission.

He recalled how in school he had learned the mechanics if reproduction; Not the…psychological aspects of it. So it came as a great surprise to him to wake up… sticky and with thoughts of a certain blunette sticking just as equally uncomfortable to his hippocampus.

Now it was staring at him…or rather him at it – Hell, it was embarrassing nonetheless!

He glanced at the clock glowing at his bedside. 4:36. Great.

He turned over and carefully positioned himself upon the mattress and forced himself back to sleep.

"This sucks." He whispered into the pillow.

He ended up dealing with it anyway.

* * *

A/N: How pointless was the Coraline bit? I'm sick, so my idea of charisma is a little…skewed.

But I updated.

I hadn't intended for both of the to end with Wybourne – I wanted a section about both of them though. So…the first one in Coraline…(obviously???)…sigh…

I really hope the rating doesn't need to go up. This is as raunchy as any chapter will get….

~Molly


	5. Awakening, Part 1

Oh, you guys! I wanted to save an update for spring break; here it is! I really do plan on updating at least twice - I hope I can do it!

DISCLAIMER: If I owned Coraline, I would be more creative in coming up with disclaimers.

-

GOLDEN SLuMBERS

-

Awakening, Part 1

-

The Basket Boys; Ashland Academy's traditional Senior Prom fundraiser. History of this event extends all the way back to when the school was founded.

In, like, the 20's.

Because _that _was when it was socially acceptable.

It is the stupidest, most embarrassing and degrading fundraiser any guy can have the misfortune of being part of.

Unless of course, you know, girls actually happen to _like _you.

So, of course, I am screwed.

But according to Grandma it's 'an honor and privilege to be a basket boy.' If she likes is so much, _she _can do it.

Lemme give you the low down; every club had to elect a guy to the benefit. So (of course!) when I wasn't around, the Robotics Club unanimously voted me into the spot. The bastards. You're called to the coordinators office, they hand you a packet, some rules, you sign this and that – you know, terms and conditions of blah blah blah.

Which brings us here; riding in the passenger seat with a heavy wicket basket in my lap and I happen to be wearing the world's gaudiest ribbon tie that I _think _may have belonged to Grandpa. It smells like butterscotch alcohol. And it's pink. (I'm pretty sure…?)

The looming day ahead sent my stomach into a panic. I clutched the basket lunch tighter in my lap. 'What ifs' flew across my brain – my vision swam; I seriously thought I would vomit.

Then the car stopped. Grandma murmured goodbye and patted her curly light blue hair. I hopped out and the sickness rose in my throat. The truck sputtered off (I momentarily thought of replacing the spark plugs.)

I caught the attention of onlookers (feh, girls.) like I had the plague. I dropped my basket like a hot potato off at the coordinators and felt a small amount of relief gush through my butt.

….

I should explain.

You know how people deal with anxiety? Some burp or some recite a relaxation manta, yea? Well, …I always have to fart.

This is our secret.

I walked past my locker, but I didn't see Jonesy. On my way to class, I passed _her_ locker – still no Jonesy. Well, at least she doesn't have to pay witness to my _epic_ humiliation in front of the entire female student body.

In Robotics I proceeded to verbally abuse my classmates, whom – not days earlier – were scoffing along with me at the mere ridiculousness of the event.

The intercom buzzed to life. A scratchy voice called everyone to stand. We said the pledges, talked through the minute of silence and – with the excitement of a million neutered cats – The Basket Boys drudged slowly to their doom in the cafetorium.

Even though I wasn't anywhere near any form of enthusiasm, I will say in my defense that I was provoked! PROVOKED I tell you! Even guys have their doubts when it comes to…being fashionable.

Yes, even _I _think about it.

And I will ignore you're smirking about my childhood wardrobe. I was a child.

Let it die.

Where was I?

Provoked. Yes.

Upon entering my doom – I.e. the Cafetorium – I discovered that there were no other guys dressed in a button up and tie. Do you honestly think I would embarrass myself any longer? I am a herd follower! If it's cool to wear eighty ga-jillion color coded bracelets that no one has any clue as to what they mean – I'm there like white on rice. (Again, I was a child. Let it die.)

I scrambled to the bathroom. The jacket, shirt and hideous nasty ass tie were stuffed in the cavity between the bathroom tile and ventilation system. I pulled the comb from my wallet and wet my hair. When I deemed myself appropriate, I left the bathroom tying a handkerchief around my neck.

I spied the coordinator cheerily handing out our lunch baskets and seat numbers stage.

After jumping in line, I had an epiphany. And it was pretty stupid.

Girls would be betting on me. And there was a possibility that said girl whom voted on me (If that were a possibility with _me._) said girl would probably have 'dibs' to take me to Prom.

Whether I liked it or not.

And this led to me to check out my competition.

Today was just a bad day for me. Jerry Braskas, DeAnthony Valdez, Axle Tule – I could go on forever. The best looking guys around. The most popular guys around. The ones girls wanted to date – the ones girls would call on. I took a seat dejectedly.

I adjusted my glasses with a sigh. The world had frowned upon me and threw me to the gods as a plaything. Because my karma must be in the pits or something.

They closed the grand drapes. 50 guys sat in the dark, silence blanketing us. What was there to talk about? This was just _wrong._

Then, a shuffling of feet. Squeeling. Screaming. Cajoling. The sound of girls. Every girl in the school. (And the rest of the guys smirking in the back because they got off scot-free.)

The lights flicked on above us. We looked at each other discreetly. We adjusted the unadjustable and prepared to face the worst. (Or maybe some thought of this as the best thing on the planet. I have no idea what's going on in their perverted brains.)

The drapes opened. There was more screaming and squeeling. There were girls on chairs in the back who couldn't see. The elation in the room was intense.

And …calming.

I sat back and kicked my leg up on my knee. It was a good feeling knowing that you weren't going to fart.

The coordinator held up a hand for silence. And there was so. (I think she's god.) She started talking and held up a coffee can. It would be a drawing or the fates. Great.

So, there I sat for over two hours as each guy was called up. They stated our names, clubs likes and dislikes – pointless things. The lunch was described and from there they – the violent femmes – duked it out.

Of course, when the quarterback was called forty-five minutes into the auction, the room was positively vibrating. For a whole 7 and a half minutes, the girls wouldn't shut up. They hadn't even said his last name!

And (it must be because I am black) I was called last. I was left sitting alone in the middle of a grouping of folding chairs looking like a kicked puppy. The coordinator smiled politely and called me to the front of the stage. I, in turn, impolitely kicked the chairs out of my way and lugged the basket forward.

There was some cat calling and whistling. Not too much surprise by now – the girls had lost their inhabitations somewhere in the middle (The dude was named Kervoskich.I think he was with swimming.) and did so with every guy after, regardless of whether they knew who he was or not.

The coordinator flipped her notebook to my page.

"Last one ladies! And this boy is some _hot pickin's_ for you without a lunch! And _what _a fine meal! None of them other boys had _grilled fish_!" There was an uproar. Damn. What did Gramma put in there?! "Ladies, the girl who got the peanut butter sandwich boy is missing out." Now some tasteful chortling. Is this how girls talked _all _the time?! "Ladies, this boy knows how to eat. We got sweet tea, that grilled fish I mentioned – salmon! Oowe! I'm salavatin'! There is a decedent fruit salad in there, and homemade chocolate chip cookies.

But who's here to talk about food???"

And we go into my life story…

Name, favorite color, hobbies – you name it. She even turned to ask me my shoe size. I told her – and you've never heard such uproar! She commented about my voice and then stated something like 'the bigger the feet' and those girls all seemed to giggle knowingly.

I have no idea _what _is going on at this point – but they've started betting.

There was ten. Fifteen. Someone jumped to thiry. Woah. There's a fourty.

Then, right as some fat chick called fifty I spotted a tiny red head who stood on top of a table. She held up a fistful of bills and shouted "One hundred for the black kid!"

I almost dropped the basket.

It was as thought the lunchroom had divided. There was the monster of a girl with inappropriately short blonde hair staring down the redhead like a piece of meat. I found myself inwardly screaming at the unknown redhead to bet higher. The blonde shouted one-twenty.

The redhead instantly called one-fifty.

One-sixty.

One-eighty.

One-ninty five.

When the redhead shouted two hundred, I set the basket down and had a seat on the stage floor. This was beyond crazy! I was ranking up there with the damned quarterback! There was NO WAY this could be happening to me!

But they kept at it. At one point, the coordinator shrieked – they hit three hundred and showed no signs of stopping.

I picked at the hem of my shirt for a moment and had an idea. A terrible, vulgar, only a jock like the quarterback would do kind of idea.

I stood up.

They ALL looked.

I secretly begged myself to repress this memory and tugged at my shirt.

I knew it was wrong to gloat about my physique but money and a six pack don't lie. And I feel it was justified – those two hit three-eighty. That was the quarterbacks' number.

I, Wybourne Lovat, blew the quarterback Dennis Long OUT OF THE WATER. I reckon that I have the right to show it off if they'll pay for it.

And so, there was screaming. The fat blonde turned red and flustered out a four hundred. I turned red too and sat down.

The redhead shouted four oh five as she was handed a dollar.

The blonde was trying just as hard when she puffed four oh nine.

The redhead squeeled four ten and adjusted her glasses.

The blonde looked saddened as she recounted her money quickly. She strangled out a four eleven. Every eye in the cafetorium was on this little redhead that I'd never seen before.

I found myself leaning forward with everyone else. She looked at her money and looked at me. The blonde looked like she needed to fart (And I could totally sympathize.)

She took a deep breath and said staring straight at me, "Four hundered eleven dollars and six cents."

…

I couldn't hear anything but my heart beating as I stared at the redhead. She was smiling and laughing along with the girls al around her. The blonde had burst into tears and was being comforted.

The coordinator was fanning herself with her notebook. She looked like Jesus had come down and asked to marry her. She lifted her hand for silence and kinda got it. (So she ISN'T god!)

"Girl, you get up here and get this boy! It's lunchtime!"

Everyone dispersed slowly to seats and lines. But I looked only at the redhead girl. She slowly inched through the crowd as other congratulated her and hugged her. As she neared the stage she looked at me.

"Hey there." She cocked her head to the side. She ignored the coordinators advances of appreciation. She just held out the money and looked only at me.

"That took a long time to save up, Wybourne."

"Uh…thanks."

"You seem a bit confused." She crossed her arms and tapped her glasses. I noticed she had the nicest brown eyes.

"Oh, uh…not …confused, per say..rather.., AH! Yes, I am confused! I'm sorry to say this but…I don't think we've met!" Why me, little redheaded girl from the unknown?

And she laughed. She threw her head back and laughed and laughed and laughed. She looked at me with teary eyes and just smiled.

"Wybourne, you've known me for-_ever. _Just think about it."

And I did.

"You aren't in any of my classes-"

"Yes I am."

"You don't have the same lunc-"

"I'm here the same time everyday, like you."

"Ah…" Now I was completely lost and I was edging on the idea of stalker…

She shook her head.

"You're hopeless, _Why-were-you-born."_

…

What?

…

Oh FREAKING _snap._

She tugged off her glasses and set them on the neck of my t-shirt. And pulled off her red hair.

Coraline Jones.

The _magnificent _Coraline Jones stood before me, a smile on her little pink lips of satisfaction. I satisfaction that I had never bared witness to before in my _life._ I felt as though something had gone terribly wrong but… just…right at the same time. Very cliché and surreal, you know?

She lifted her hand to shut my gaping mouth, but it just fell open again.

"Go to Prom with me, Lovat."

What's a guy to do?

-

END PART 1

-

A/N: What is there to say after you write 7 pages of work? I'm not quite sure how I feel about this one…but it will eventually tie into the theme – don't get me wrong!

The concept of Basket Boys was introduced to me when I was a little and the thought (for me) was kinda romantic and really fun. I've always wanted to put it on but I could never find the right medium to place it in.

I feel that you are the right audience.

So…You see the little button? It's says go. I will let you press that button.

I'm so nice! Yes? In fact, I won't make you come to school during Spring Break!

But without you, I wouldn't be here. I love yall!


	6. Dream 5

DISCLAIMER: If I owned Coraline, you would be bowing to me and not Neil Gaiman. But no one bows to me.

-

GOLDEN SLuMBERS

-

Dream 5

-

They were my favorite sheets. I'd never have better ones. What could compete with a twin set of black cotton with decorative white flowers all over? Nothing could, which was why I'm crying.

To upgrade to a larger bed means larger sheets which means the ones on my twin wouldn't fir the new full size.

I deflated when my mother walked in, demanding that I remove the linens and stop dawdling so dad could get the new bed upstairs as quickly as possibly. Apparently, it took up too much space in the living room. The one that no one ever lived in.

To prolong its passing, I folded everything with precision and placed them in a box with care. I had even cried at one point, the tears creating blotches of non-color against the black fabric.

When all was said and done, I called Wybie to discuss my grief.

Of course, him being a guy, he didn't understand my anguish and had originally thought someone died.

I hung up. Boys were so dumb.

XoxoX

The next after noon, the August sun tangled itself into the wispy summer clouds as I set the box of bedclothes on the stoop. I leaned over the rail and stared down the road where thick waves of dirt were being flung into the air.

Without fail, an old Ford motored up to the Pink Palace, carrying a seventeen year old Wybourne A. Lovat inside its rusting carriage. I had always wondered what the 'A.' stood for, but had always said it was too lame to mention.

I allowed my eyes to pull away, focusing on my mother who had just walked out behind me holding an armful of cardboard and styrofoam.

"What's that from?" And why do we have copious amounts styrofoam and cardboard to begin with?

"It's the packaging from your bed, dear. Why, afternoon Wybourne." She called behind her as she walked back inside.

"That's _right."_ Wybourne hissed as he trotted up the steps. "You're getting a new bed. I can't believe you cried like a baby when you called! They're just sheets Jonesy." He smiled cheekily. He was too damn cute to be doing that to me.

I punched him in the arm, hissing back at him. "No, they're not! They were a going away present from Chris and Melina in Michigan." Honestly, he really didn't understand anything.

"So, what? Are you throwing them out? Did your mother tell you to do that?" He had this look on his face… Was it confusion or empathy? Was he really capable of such things? I could've sworn the appearance of his hormones around thirteen had cancelled out anything but his ability to annoy the crap out of me.

"It doesn't matter. We grow out of everything at some point." I shook my head and walked inside. Boys were so dumb.

XoxoX

Not a week after the sheets went to the Goodwill and the new bed took command as my chief sleeping quarters, the washing machine broke. So what did I have to do? I had to walk half a mile, carting a twenty pound basket of laundry (over hill and over dale, mind you) to Wybournes so I could use the machine.

Wybourne was out and Mrs. Sharyhs couldn't drive.

It freakin' sucked.

To my happiness, fifteen minutes into my hike, the purple Victorian came into view and I could hear my arms rejoicing. When I got to the door, I could feel Wybies' grandmothers' dislike for me radiating through the walls.

"Afternoon, Coraline. Come along, dear." I was led to the garage.

…

The _garage._

As in, the 'man cave'.

_Wybie's_ man cave.

The man cave where various home appliances met their doom and then became resurrected with some kind of would be improvement. Or so the evil Dr. Lovat would delude himself to believe.

The screen door leading to the garage swung open before me and I watched Mrs. Sharhys step down to the concrete floor.

Following her, my eyes found the machines without a second of hesitation.

"For cereal? For, like, super cereal? You're not kidding me?!" I flung my head wildly to catch her reaction. What on earth were brand new true blue front loading Whirlpools doing in the 'man cave'? How were they not in pieces and hanging from the ceiling?!

The woman shook her head and walked back into the house, muttering something about 'missing her stories.' I shuddered. What had I ever done to her? I would never understand, I suppose.

After loading the washer, I took a look around the tinker shop Wybie had put together. The walls were lined with tools of various uses and applications. Bikes, kites, a push-along lawn mower, three pairs of goulashes filled with what appeared to be chicken wire and a dying vine type plant, a freaking kayak and five picture-less frames hung from the rafter, a partially visible attic still visible through the clutter.

An old Beatle on cinderblocks took up the latter half of the garage, whilst the area closest to the door was purely for technological equipment. Computers, monitors, side panels, motherboards, keyboards, mice, a_ sewing machine_ (did he have a secret desire to make clothes infused with pits of explosive metal for a living?) even several videogame systems were upon work benches. A singular beat-up Victorian style loveseat sat in front of an analogue television with so many wires, I believed the room to be a fire hazard.

"What're you doing in here, Jonesy?"

Well, _that _scared the shit out of me.

"I hadn't even heard the truck. You just get back?" I turned to find the boy kicking off a pair of purple chucks next to the door. He was looking at the washing machine.

"_Oooohhhh_… Your Aqualtis finally break? Your mom called me about that; there wasn't much I could do." He walked past me and dove onto the love seat. It looked so old that I was worried the bottom would fall out if he did that again.

I watched him play some nonsensical game about a kid with pink hair fighting some eight-bit wizard for capturing some princesses for bla bla bla. Video games never did it for me.

I moved the clothes over after an hour and new it would be a long day. After Wybie defeated the game, he put another in and showed me how to play.

I really sucked.

I was so into Circle of Light 3, that I didn't hear the dryer. I was about to get an armor upgrade and talk to Master Captain when Wybie walked up behind me and dumped the clean laundry on my head.

God, boys are dumb.

XoxoX

When I got home later that evening, as I was putting my clothes away, I noticed one of my favorite dresses was missing.

XoxoX

I was bummed. I was mad. I was angry, I was irritated, and I was a force to be reckoned with. In the last week, I had continuously lost things I loved. My sheets which now were gathering dust on a shelf somewhere in a town I never went to, my favorite plaid dress which I intended on wearing to today's picnic _and_ I haven't been able to get a hold of Wybournes' ear all week!

Personally, I think his grandma is mad that I 'purposely' put bubblegum in the pocket of my jeans before setting the dryer on wrinkle release.

Wearing said jeans, which now had a pleasant gum aroma, I stood in the kitchen hacking apart a watermelon for salad. This was the third Fourth of July I had spent without Chris and Melina. I wondered if they still went down to the creek or if they played Skip-Bo until midnight like we used to.

"Coraline, where are the cheese and crackers?" I could hear father calling from the backdoor.

"Coming!" I tossed the knife in the sink and grabbed the two pistachio colored trays. All the dishware we own seems to be circa seventies. And either pistachio or plastic made to look faux-wood.

The sun beat down on the garden, where everyone in the Pink palace had gathered to celebrate.

I set the trays down and took everything in. The flowers of the garden were blooming beautifully, everyone admiring them and chatting away nonsensically.

But where was Wybourne? I know he had been invited, right? Mom knew that he was the only person my age for 3 miles, right? She couldn't have forgotten.

Besides, he would have come anyway, right?

I pushed these suspicions out of my head, and decided that he would be here any minute now.

Oh look, there was Mrs. Sharhys now.

Hmm…

Without her grandson.

Boys were _so _dumb.

XoxoX

At ten 'til nine, I sat at the kitchen table while everyone outside enjoyed the fireworks. This had to be the worst holiday I'd ever spent by myself.

I lazily sat up, lifting from the uncomfortable chair with the vigor of a dead duck. I set my half full glass of tea next to the sink and began the arduous climb to my bedroom.

At least my new bed was outrageously comfortable. I knew very well that the thick mattress could handle any amount of tears I flung at it.

The front door slammed open and I thought someone had come in to knock me down the stairs and steal my piggy bank. But that wasn't the case…

"Coraline! You wouldn't _believe _my day!" The jerk had a huge smile set to his face, and even chuckled at a joke he had made, but I wasn't listening. I was too mad at his happy expression. I just wanted to deck him across the face!

"You _jerk!"_ I shouted at him, stopping his sentence mid word. "You freakin' left me alone all day! Where were you when we were supposed to start our midnight Skip-Bo? Where were you when you were supposed to eat all the watermelon so you could prove to everyone that you were a stereotypical black guy? Where were – what is that?"

He waved a brown paper package in my face, he smile returning even though I had just accused him of being a total git.

"Not only did I have to run across town six times to find the correct color of thread, but I also had to fix a window planter, a roof and pick out the right lace! Picking lace! Do you understand how indignifying picking lace is? I had three old women come up to me and ask if I needed help finding the right edging for my boyfriends pillow or something!" He continued on and on but I didn't understand any of it. Did it all tie to what was in the package?

"Jonesy? Hey, Jonsey?" I had spaced out due to his dumb-ness! Wybie was waving a hand in my face. "Look, I wanted to find a way to say sorry for what I said, so-"

"Sorry? For what? What did you say?" I was the very pink of incredulous.

"For the sheets! A gift is a gift no matter who it's from and everything you're given us special to you. So… I had this made up…to apologize." He scratched his cheek nervously and waited for me to open it.

But I could only hold it tenderly and stare at him.

Why on earth was he so dumb?

"What're you waiting for? Open it, open it!" He stepped toward me and tapped the package. I shook my head and just looked at him. "What?" His face fell. "Did I really make you that mad? I'm so sor-"

I really hoped Mrs. Sharhys wouldn't walk in to find me kissing the daylights out of her grandson.

Too bad karma was out to get me.

"WYBOURNE AUGUSTUS LOVAT!"

"CORALINE REGINA JONES!"

Sharhys AND my mother! Joy of joys!

To make matters worse, I had dropped the package and opted to hold on to the railing and his forearm for support.

But it was Wybies' fault! He made it seem _so _much worse. He was the one who grabbed my head in the cheesy romance movie way, you know where one hand was inching at my hips and the other was at my neck, fisted in my hair.

Yea. _Real _sexy like. And pudding flavored. Euch.

I could see what was going to happen by the look on my mothers face. She was gonna call my father in and have him testify to god and everyone present that if Wybourne so much as a finger in this house he would tear him limb by limb and present the pieces in a crappy vegetarian friendly eco-meal that tasted like compost.

And Sharhys… She just looked speechless. I didn't have the slightest idea as to what she was feeling.

Just as my mother opened her mouth, Wybourne grabbed my hand and yanked me back to his level. He pushed a rough, crazy kiss to my lips and whispered 'see ya!' and was out the door like a rocket.

His grandmother shot after him, as fast as her old legs could go. Which was as far as the porch. "Get back here, boy!" She shook a fist at the tail lights of his Ford pickup.

Remembering myself, I snatched the package from the landing and scrambled up the stairs. My mother howled after me and about how 'my father would hear about this' bla bla bla.

I flopped down on my bed and lay there, thinking about what Wybie had meant by those kisses. It was something. I know it was.

My fingers brushed over the thick brown paper, itching with curiosity to know what surprise was hidden beneath.

I gave it one more look, thinking of Wybournes' tongue racing across the roof of my mouth – I ripped open the package, ripping through my visions of would-be romance.

But I just wanted to cry.

Two dresses of the same cut were within. The first my favorite plaid, but where could he-

It occurred to me that he must've stolen it last week when I did laundry. I set it aside and looked at the other. I shuddered and wept openly; He had taken the sheets as well and had a dress made to look like to the plaid.

I held the dress to my chest, and bawled. The collar and hem were all lined in blue lace just like he said.

He wasn't around because he was having a dress made. Just to apologize for something he really didn't do. Because I was pretty sure he loved me.

I shook my head, smiling and thinking of calling him about a date.

Boys were so dumb.

XoxoX

AN: Yanno, I'm entirely pleased with this one, but I don't think its utter shit. I needed to update and I feel this will do. Please review and tell me what you think. Be gentle with me!


	7. Dream 6

DISCLAIMER: If I owned Coraline, her theme song would be "Danger Woman' and Wybie's would be 'Red Sweater' each by The Aquabats. LISTEN TO THEM NOW THEYS AMAZING!

-

GOLDEN SLuMBERS

-

Dream 6

-

Coraline huffed as quietly as she could while she inched foreword across a thick branch of the steady white oak.

She bit her lip when the leaves above rustled and the tree growled with use, making the girl hold her breath – as if it would make her lighter.

She turned her attention back to the branch beneath her, her heart thumping, her smile courageous and her veins quaking with adrenaline – and it was wrong.

Oh.

It was just _bad._

But, really; whatever was a sixteen year old to do, when throes of lust and fantasy took command of her cerebellum, leaving her to swoon and sway under the fancy of a particular Mr. Lovat?

Well. She _would _be under his fancy if he contained the gumption and attention span to _notice __her_fancy.

Nevertheless, Coraline did well to barely contain a squeal of sheer delight into the nightly falling autumn when the pleasantly familiar figure of a certain Mr. Lovat graced her eyes with its nearing form.

And in saying 'nearing' I find need to expound by saying 'aided by her binoculars from 40 yards away and 30 feet up.'

Where were we?

Ah yes; the nearing Mr. Lovat.

Though Coraline knew about this ritual early on in her childhood, it wasn't until the blooming flower of her teenage years that she realized how beneficial such activity was to young men and why it mattered so extensively.

Wybourne proceeded to roll back the sleeves of his flannel shirt and set himself to his weekly labor.

Ah, and how sweet such labor was to the female eye! He turned and bent – such curvature! Such strength! He pulled and lifted – ah, what tenacity! What grace! And with brunt, he swung down – with each hack, he emitted a primal 'ha' in the defiance of his work.

It wouldn't be long before the flannel had him over-heated and in need of another option.

Option 'B' being the crowning glory of Coralines late afternoon dallies up and down trees in effort of spying on her machinery-minded neighbor.

What was option B, you ask?

Why, option B was 'TO HELL WITH THIS SHIRT!'

And so, as every workload turned him torrid, his flannel was turned out on the ground beside him so as to let him finish in a more comfortable manner.

And really, what better had she to do than watch a well endowed, half naked Wybourne chop wood?

Yeah; nothing.

XoxoX

It all started with a knitting needle.

Well.

That's not exactly accurate.

It _really _started with a catalytic converter; a very stubborn catalytic converter which refused – in _every _sense of the word – any attempt to be moved.

With this having been said, Wybourne decided that this part of the tale would be quietly omitted and laid to rest with other 'Why Wybourne is effing stupid' stories.

Where were we?

Ah yes; the knitting needle.

The mishap with the converter happened but a week ago and since then; Wybourne had been outfitted with a new, itchy, horridly uncomfortable cast – _just for him!_

Oh, joy! Oh, rapture!

God dammit.

Ever since that day, Gramma wouldn't let him step one foot in the garage. Of _course _he complained – the oil would get dusty, lug nuts would go missing, and he _still _had to properly dispose of the shitty converter; after all, Wybourne took a certain dose of pride in his being a massive eco head. He even had a wind generator installed on the roof (At the expense of Grammas immense displeasure.)

It was as soon as that knitting needle went down his shin to alleviate his torment, Gramma was in the room with a pair of her own and a all of ugly wool.

This was how Wybourne A. Lovat learned to knit.

And knitting was _very _manly.

No matter how much Coraline laughed at him.

XoxoX

She was still getting a sweater for Christmas.

XoxoX

AN: HEY! I gots another chapter out! Go back to school everyone! Its time to learn!!!

(Agony.)


End file.
